


Bloody Needlework

by Zodiac



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, Drabbles, Gen, Gore, Skin embroidery, Torture, which is exactly what it sounds like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 20:31:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3783421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zodiac/pseuds/Zodiac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lysander is just a normal radiology tech working at a local hospital. However, when a very unusual surgeon asks for a private meeting with him, that life is stripped away from him as he becomes the surgeon's next patient.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloody Needlework

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick original drabble I whipped up based around the prompt "skin embroidery" I got.

“And you thought that I was going to tear you open, pull out your guts. Such a crude mindset you have. This is much cleaner… and much more beautiful, don’t you agree?”

No, he didn’t. Lysander had been minding his own business, closing up his shift as being a radiology tech at the local hospital when one of the surgeons had requested a personal meeting with him, something about a problem involving some recent x-rays. The man had seemed rather sketchy in foresight, with smudged circles under his eyes as dark as his wavy hair. But, if everyone who looked like they hadn’t slept in days was considered suspicious, then a good deal of the hospital staff would be hauled in for interviews.

So he followed after the surgeon, trailing along after him until they reached an examination room in one of the older wings of the hospital. Once he stepped across the threshold of the doorway, the surgeon stepped behind him, closing the door for what he assumed to be privacy. He ended up assuming poorly as the surgeon pressed against his back, hand darting up to press a rag soaked with general anesthetics against his nose.

He was out before he hit the ground.

Lysander woke up in a place that looked so eerily similar to the hospital he was used to, but just different enough for him to notice. There was the operating table- which he was currently firmly strapped into- and the counter, complete with a box of latex gloves and a stainless steel sink set deep into it. But there was something that definitely should not have been there, an instrument table with sewing needles and countless spools of bright red thread.

He was just contemplating how to try to wriggle his way out of his bonds when the surgeon from before entered, a crooked grin on his face nonverbally telling him that he had much more wrong with him than mere sleep deprivation. He didn’t speak that whole first day, just leered at him with that deranged smile as he picked up a needle and thread and got to work.

First came the fingers of one of Lysander’s hands, sewing tight bundles of stitches into the skin at the tips. He supposed it was his pain-addled mind thinking it in an attempt to think of anything but how he was currently being treated like a badly-injured doll, but he had to admit that this surgeon was good at what he did. No matter how much he squirmed, writhed, or howled from the anesthesia-less sewing, the surgeon’s hands remained steady, always hitting their mark precisely over and over again. He had reached the elbow before it ended for the day and Lysander was able to make out what he was stitching into his skin.

Arteries.

From the tips of his fingers to his elbow, there were crimson threads sewn into his skin that branched outwards ever-so slightly, leaving that part of him looking like those models showing all the blood vessels in the human body in science textbooks. Those definitely did not have the skin still on them, though. He, unfortunately, did. He whimpered, letting his head fall back against the operating table he was still bound in, arm too much of a throbbing, stinging mess to attempt to break free, much less fight against the surgeon that was most likely watching the way out.

The surgeon returned what he assumed was the day after. And the day after that, and so on. Each day, he worked a little more on the stitches, expanding them out more and more. However, after that first day, he began to speak, becoming ever more animated as time, and progress on the fleshy embroidery, passed.

He was healing Lysander, he claimed, fixing him in a way that he had never fixed any of his patients. Sure, he stitched them up too, but it was never like this. The risk of death by blood loss prevented him from sewing them back up in this way, so they always ended up with ugly, hurried stitches that were spattered with blood and made him cringe upon seeing. Lysander would be his masterpiece, a testament of his skills as both a surgeon and his knowledge of the human body.

Lysander sometimes responded to this obvious madman’s delusions. Most of the time, he did not, both fearing the consequences if he responded in a negative fashion and stunned at the sheer insanity being exhibited here. He just laid there, cringing and whimpering at every push of the needle into his body as the embroidery continued taking shape.

He had lost track of the days he had been there when the surgeon wheeled in a new instrument table- and immediately shuddered when he saw what was on it, tools of the surgeon’s trade: scalpels, forceps, even a bone saw. His panicked eyes shot up to the surgeon’s face, seeing only that same grin as before as an answer.

“You are almost complete.” He murmured in that oily voice of his, letting his gaze trail down his victim’s body, now almost a perfect facsimile of those arterial models.  _Almost_. “The arteries are all in position. But,” His eyes raked back upwards, lingering on an empty spot nearly in the exact middle of his chest, “what are arteries without a heart to provide them blood? Useless, empty tubes made of meat and viscera, that’s what. My dear masterpiece, I shall give you a true, working heart and the arteries I have so lovingly crafted for you shall sing with blood and purpose.” He plucked the bone saw from the table, carefully aligning it atop the center of his victim’s sternum.

As the first push of the saw shredded his skin, Lysander screamed.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this and wanted to screech at me in a manner similar to socializing, then you can find my Tumblr right [here](http://catsandcomposers.tumblr.com/).


End file.
